Crimes of Home
by Scarlet Royal
Summary: Sherlock has an intense, and fueled run-in with John after three years of separation. Will Sherlock be able to piece together the life he once had? Season 3.


**Description**: Sherlock has an intense, and fueled run-in with John after three years of separation. Will Sherlock be able to piece together the life he once had? Season 3.

Something to hold over fellow Sherlockians till season 3.

* * *

'What do you think, would not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds?'  
**― ****Fyodor Dostoyevsky****, **_**Crime and Punishment**_

Sherlock Holmes was used to the thought that the application of one misplaced, minuscule detail could have devastating consequence. In fact, it became his method of living. A lustful, darkened haze of an ordeal. Precariously, one could even say he established a home in this way. With another bachelor, sure; and an older woman. But this was the surface of his life's details.

With more examination, he found that these individuals had possessed more dedication than ever to be expected. They were bleeding-heart flowers, wide open and vulnerable-ripe to July. Their physical hearts dealt with more than expected, as well. Grief, that scarlet, deadened-pulse had infiltrated their arteries and veins after his staged death. And these details, when thought of over the past three years, created a love for these individuals which Sherlock never did foresee, or ever want.

But: what was it he wanted? He wondered this, faintly, as he entered the restaurant where he heard John was to dine that night. Along with a mass of waiters, it did help that he was also placed in charge of reservations. His mind-a chart and overflow of constantly changing information-was perfect for it.

Numbness was the most attractive quality to the menial job. But this night, as he put on his tailored suit, and pressed his shirt collar into symmetrically curved moons, he stared at his image in the mirror overlooking the hallway of his dank flat. His eyes were a storm of wariness. His hands were trembling.

He suited up. The weight of one minuscule detail hung like a noose. And, the worst part of the isolation which consumed him these past three years, asked, finally: Would it all be worth it, really, if that single detail, what secretly mattered to him, fell through?

...

'I'm his waiter,' Sherlock huffed, moving past the line of men and women waiting with trays, and wine bottles, to get to the front of the dirge.

'No, you're not. That's not your section.' Glen moved to block his way, but Sherlock already stuck a foot out, knowing Jennifer would have quick enough reflexes to catch him. This job, a waiter and hostess, all of it, was too simple. And Sherlock knew this would come to an end that night. In one of two ways.

'Bloody bastard!' he heard Jennifer shout back, clutching Glen in her arms. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Sherlock did not reply, and instead peered through the glass doors which led to the main banquet room. His heart stopped, and there-moody and clean-pressed as well-was John. As his tray trembled, Sherlock made a futile attempt to remind himself that dread and love were closely related in both their intricate pathways of the mind. It was all an axon away, wasn't it? Love, friendship, confusion, and heartache; it was all a misfiring from the practical. Even the greatest minds make mistakes.

He seemed to be pulled effortlessly. There was no noise in the room. Instead, white static poured like smooth milk into his skullcap. John was sitting at a table, alone, brining a wine-glass up to his lips. And if Sherlock's mind was there, he would have noticed the details, but they were absent. There was only gravity, and direction.

'John?'

His eyes flickered up, and widened. Pale-flecks of terror registered, and transferred between the two men's eyes. But then something happened that was unexpected. Sherlock was staring into a void of white. John's eyes rolled back, and in one solid, arch-like motion, he collapsed.

There was a rustle of suits becoming alarmed into movement, but it was too late. Sherlock was already at the man's side, shouting for liquor. John felt movement at his mouth, soft muscles whispered his lips open, and then there was the slight invading burn of alcohol. he began to choke, and with aggressive gestures, his arms forced themselves into motion.

When seated upwards, John was staring up at Sherlock Holmes. The tall man's hand was grasping his, and he was pinned beneath his long legs, on either side of his own. Sherlock's lips were faintly wet, and John began to realize how the alcohol was administered…

'It was him, he did it! He attacked the man!' 'He was up, then before you know, the man was out cold!' The shouts into the hall broke both Sherlock's and John's gaze, and hands around them gestured frantically, pointing, towards Sherlock.

'Who?' The voice was a woman's now.

'Him!' shouted a man, 'I swear, it was out of bloody nowhere, he-'

And before he could defend himself, Sherlock was struck, hard, in the face. Blood stemmed from his nose, and splattered across John, a blank canvass, not too far from him.

In the silence of the hall that followed, Sherlock looked up. It was the woman who had struck him. The consulting detective composed himself.

"And who are you?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing.

John, still pinned under Sherlock, finally spoke. His voice was quiet.

'Hush, will you _please_. You're making a scene here.'

'Too late,' Sherlock retorted. 'Who is she?'

John pressed a hand to his forehead, and let out a heavy sigh. 'Fine, you asked. Sherlock, this is my...future wife, Mary.'

The woman's expression was taut, and began to look worried.

'And Mary, meet my….' He coughed through the palpable tension, now rolling over the three. 'Well, this is Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock stood. He looked at John, who looked back. The banquet hall was effectively silenced.

It was Mary who broke it, with a whisper.

'Mr. Holmes,' she said. 'I believe we need to talk.'

...

* * *

**AN**: I think I will write more to this series. What do you think?


End file.
